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Saturday, March 29, 2008

The decision to keep Jayci Yaeger's dad in jail raised a lot of attention, and prison officials let him visit with his daughter earlier this week. It was a short visit, and Jayci passed away Friday morning, March 28th.

Join me in saying a prayer (or two) for this family, and for the myriad other families around the world who are separated from the ones they love and are suffering, because no matter what the cause of the separation and suffering, it's just plain awful.

Not really. Mostly my first- and second-born children and their nasty pencils, markers and crayons. I really do try to Monitor the Use and Cleaning Up of Drawing Implements, however those dang pencils, etc., are so crafty and sneaky, they just get out of the art cart, and have their wicked way with my walls and furniture. So, instead of making the Monitoring...Drawing Implements my number one priority, I do laundry. That cleans stuff up, too, you know?

The Mister was headed to the hardware store a little bit ago, to fix up the bathroom all nice and refreshing-like (more on that to come), so I asked him eversosweetly to pick me up one of those Mr. Baldie Magic Scrubberthings. It's Magic, right? So great, Magic Scrubberthingy. Clean the stupid Sharpie off my walls.

Here are a few shots of what me and Mr. Baldie were up against:I call this one "Blue Nude on Parrot Green." Ths second one is just scribbling. Don't make the mistake of confusing it with Real Art.

Here is NumberOne's first attempt at Sharpie on Satin (er, paint finish that is). I think the second pic is on a dresser. I don't blame you for thinking I don't pay attention to the children. It sure does look that way.

I got me some coffee and a glove, because there is NO WAY I would touch that magic thing with bare hands. I have enough magic in me already, thankyouverymuch.

Is it the Blessed Virgin? Should I not use this sponge? I guess he could be Mr. Blessed Virgin Baldie Man, but the way those lascivious housewives look at him in the commercials, I highly doubt it. There's a few human cartoon characters who are obviously less than virginal: Jessica Rabbit, Betty Boop, Bill Clinton, and I'm pretty sure Mr. Baldie is in their gang.

But I digress. It happens so often, nowadays, have you noticed? Maybe I need to drink more...water. Might boost my brain function. Or keep me from being thirsty.

So how DID it work, after all? Pretty good on pencil, crayon and marker, except with the marker there were colossal streaks and little wet marker polka dotties all over the place that would not come off with the magic hooha, even after I rinsed it out. Repeatedly. (Read: pretty stinking annoying.) Here is some evidence of where it worked. The first picture is our former treasure, Blue Nude on Parrot Green and the next is where I was almost done getting the pencil off.

I was disappointed at the Failure To Remove Sharpie. If you are going to call yourself Magic, you should have figured out the Sharpie thing. And that is that. Here is a before and after of the non-magician-like, non-removal. The before is the black splooch at the bottom left. The after is everything else. Quality? Ummm.....no.

Also, I erased my way through the Thingy really fast. So fast that I didn't even pay attention to how quickly it deteriorated with the first one I used. I counted scrubs with the Sharpie attempt. There was a hole in it before I got to 150 erases. I counted one erase down and one erase up as one. Get it? No? Okay. Do this. Put your hand out in front of you. Move it down, and then up, and count one. Move it down and then up again, and count two. With me now? Great.

The thing is just wimpy. And, it is just another reason to clean with rags and non-toxic products. I have never erased me a hole in a cotton rag. Who has ever heard of such nonsense?

My overall rating for this ReallyNotEvenActuallyCloseToBeingMagicWasteOfMoney?

I am doing my part in setting a good example for the children. The barfing has spread to NumberOneSon, and the poor lad has finally fallen asleep after being up for hours, alternately watching VeggieTales and spewing his sorry little guts in a Pampered Chef Batter Bowl. (The 8-cup one, not the 4-cup, in case you are familiar with the product line.)

I feel so awful for the kids when they are so sick they puke, but at the same time I feel so awful for me. I am really terrible with vomit. REALLY. TERRIBLE. The stench, the sound, the whole body involvement. It's as if I am also vomiting, right there with them.

Once, when I was pregnant with one of the boys, I think it was HB, MyGal and I had the flu in the summertime. Two of my friends had come over to help me deal, because the Mister was out of town drywalling some guy's house. I tried to be supportive, and catch her puke, and clean it up, but I couldn't even help the poor girl. My other, also pregnant, friends were doing the literal dirty work, sending me out of the room when I was obviously also about to blow. We both ended up in the hospital, on different nights. I was first, it was on the Mister's birthday. I had never been so sick in my life from germs. Once in college I had alcohol or food poisoning and vomited for two days straight, every time I moved. This was similar, except for the fact that I was pregnant, and vomiting like that in the 90 degree heat would make for not such a happy and hydrated baby. My father-in-law took me to the Emergency Room, and kept me supplied with clean barf bags, and wiped my nasty mouth, and stayed with me until they had me admitted with lots of anti-nausea drugs and an IV drip of very cold liquid. The man is A Saint, I tell you. I felt much better in the morning. And HB baked up just fine, weighing 9 pounds 12 and scoring super high on the Apgar Assessments.

MyGal's trip was much shorter. The ER nurses told her she would have to have an IV if she didn't stop barfing. We were out of there in an hour and a half. Willpower. That is the child's middle name.

Oh, Lord Almighty, I hate the barfing. Make it leave my house before it spreads to anyone else.

Friday, March 28, 2008

Here's a little pick-me up. I don't know if you need one, but man, I for sure do need a little boost. I will refrain from a) complaining about my lack of healthiness for the past two days, and b) describing the sorts of activities in which I was participating. You are very welcome. But I will boast about my trooper-ness: I have done three loads of Bodily Fluid Laundry today, despite being really quite ill. And none of the fluids in question were mine. But here are some pictures of my lovies to speed along your Friday Trip To Happy Hour.

I LOVE MY BATH!!!

I LOVE TO SPLASH!!!

I AM THE HAPPIEST LITTLE MISTER THIS SIDE OF ANYWHERE!!!

Enough said.

MyGal and her Uncle Ben. I have to admit, this is not the most flattering one of Uncle Benna. She loves her some Uncle Ben.

This fella loves to snuggle after a long, hard, bath.

P.S. I am feeling much better, now that I have you all wondering. I have had a nice, strong cup of coffee, and am ready for some toast. Maybe.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

I'm going light on the posting today, and straight to bed. Apparantly I have three viruses in my right ear that are doing their best to wreak havoc on the rest of me. The lovely ladies at CrossCurrent Health Care gave me this astute diagnosis without me even describing how I was feeling or where I was hurting. I love those gals and their super techniques.

I'd appreciate a little prayer for me to feel better and have my viruses' butts kicked so that I can handle the team tomorrow.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

I was just imagining how not nice it would be to play Tetris while sitting on, say, the toilet, and to have my right leg fall asleep, so soundly asleep and so quickly that it would be impossible to actually stand up.

Wouldn't that be just awful if it really happened? Can you imagine, too? I bet you can.

The Mister has taken to sleeping on the couch most of the past few nights after reading this, and I have been sleeping the whole, entire, everylastminuteofthe-livelong-night. And it is GRAND!

So when wee HB woke up two nights ago, at 5:24 a.m., my reaction was to grumble, but then I realized I had been sleeping for hours and hours, and I very nearly bounded out of bed with a sense of joy and rapture. Okay, maybe I fell out of bed and prayed for joy and rapture, but it was there somewhere.

I went in HB's room, and scooped my babe up in my arms for a cuddle. Now by scoop, I mean bulldozer-style hefting, not the two-hands-only-no-actual-strength-involved picking up that some people are able to do with their children. Because this boy is working on developing the kind of fat-roll investment that old twinkie-eating alcoholics have. The exception being that HB is not gross, and doesn't eat nasty twinkies, and only drinks beer when it comes from the tap If You Know What I Mean. And, NO!, I do not mean that the baby does keg stands, or has ever even seen a beer tapper-thing. Be real, for crying out loud. But I digress.

He was chilly and still very tired and just needed some mama, so I wrapped his quilt around him, and we sat in the comfy chair in his room and rocked and nursed.

There was such perfection in that moment. Everything was still and quiet; the night was still sleepy and daytime wasn't ready yet. And my sweet babe laid his fatty-fat cheek on my chest, snuggled his round little self into me and went to sleep. His hot little hands were at rest, one on his face and one on my side. I had nearly forgotten what it felt like to be holding a sleeping toddler, and I was surprised, if a mom can be surprised, by how much love I have for that little boy.

And now, while I sit here and write all of this, I have tears in my eyes, because I know that may have been the very last time HB wakes up for a little nursing comfort. He is getting so big and is developing so much...from physical things like walking, even running, and his balance, to talking and feeding himself. There's not much baby left in him.

I'm sure that sometime much later, I hope, I'll be commenting on how all of my kids have not much little kid left in them, or not much teenager left in them. Maybe that one won't make me cry...then again, it probably will.

There is one part about my kids growing up that is pleasant: I don't notice how old I am getting. Take the perks where you can, I guess.

French Press Carafe, of the Household DaytonOn Easter Sunday, March 23, 2008, the newest addition to the Dayton Family suffered an untimely demise at home. There have been whispers of murder, but all witnesses are certain that it was an accidental death, due to uncontrolled use of a certain person's elbow.

French Press Carafe leaves behind its counterparts, Beloved Plunger and Insulated Polycarbonate Frame, who are sticking together at this difficult time. Also mourning the loss of French Press Carafe are The Mister and The Mama. Soon to be mourning the loss of French Press Carafe are the Dayton Children, MyGirl, NumberOneSon, and HB; also the crew of R & R Precision Construction, where The Mister is currently employed.

A Trust Fund has been established for the continued care of Beloved Plunger and Insulated Polycarbonate Frame, in order to provide them with a secondary Carafe. All monies may be given directly to either The Mister or The Mama.

Saturday, March 22, 2008

I am one of the biggest anit-forwarded-email people ever. HOWEVER...this one made me laugh out loud. Mostly because this sort of shenanigans takes child-parent combat to the very next level, and possibly the level after that. And by combat, I most certainly do not mean the hand-to-hand variety. Read on, You Needers Of A Good Laugh.

The boss wondered why one of his most valued employees had not phoned in sick one day. Having an urgent problem with one of the main computers, he dialed the employee's home phone number and was greeted with a child's whisper.

Hello?

Is your daddy home? he asked.

Yes, whispered the small voice.

May I talk with him?

The child whispered, No.

Surprised and wanting to talk with an adult, the boss asked, Is your Mommy there?

Yes.

May I talk with her?

Again the small voice whispered, No.

Hoping there was somebody with whom he could leave a message, the boss asked, Is anybody else there?

Yes, whispered the child, a policeman.

Wondering what a cop would be doing at his employee's home, the boss asked, May I speak with the policeman?

No, he's busy, whispered the child.

Busy doing what?

Talking to Daddy and Mommy and the Fireman, came the whispered answer.

Growing more worried as he heard a loud noise in the background through the earpiece on the phone, the boss asked, What is that noise?

A helicopter, answered the whispering voice.

What is going on there?!?! demanded the boss, now truly apprehensive.

Again, whispering, the child answered, The search team just landed a helicopter.

Alarmed, concerned and a little frustrated the boss asked, What are they searching for?

Friday, March 21, 2008

Here's Olivia, looking gorgeous with chopsticks in her hair. The flesh-colored stick that looks like it is jabbing her skull is, in fact, a chopstick, and you can just trust me that the other half of the pair is in there somewhere.

And check the picture. She named the horse Sasha and wrote it all by herself without asking how to spell it. Smart cookie.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Have you heard the one about the guy in a minimum security prison, 11 months left in his sentence, whose 10 year-old daughter is dying of brain cancer? No? Read on.

She can't speak. She can barely move. By all accounts, she is going to die. Her father has been allowed to see her less than a handful of times since she was pronounced 'terminal'. Each time, the little girl has had a remarkable upswing in her condition, and the doctors attribute it to the presence of her daddy. The little girl's relatives think she is remaining alive so that she can see her daddy, feel his arms around her one last time.

But the Federal Bureau of Prisons says 'Too bad about your little brain issue. Pops ain't coming.' That is not exactly what they said. The reason for not transferring the dad to a work camp about an hour from where the child is located, is that "although Mr. Yaeger believes his daughter's severe medical condition constitutes 'extraordinary justification,' a review of his case reveals this specific request was … reviewed … and denied … because his circumstances were not deemed to rise to the level of extraordinary."

What is not extraordinary about the will to live? What is not extraordinary about a child whose dying wish, the only thing left in the world that she wants, is to see her daddy?

Nothing, I guess. Apparently the will to stay alive until the strongest arms she knows enfold her, is common; holding off death, or pleading with Jesus to let her stay until her daddy gets there, is something that others schedule into their calendars.

My heart breaks for this baby and her family. This man knows what he did was wrong. He's not asking for his sentence to be cut short. He wants to be with his baby when she dies. He wants to be there for his wife and other daughter. It's not as if he is asking to go home to get laid so that he can make it for the last 11 months of his sentence. His child is dying.

My heart breaks for our country. Where is the dignity for this American family? Where is the kindness? There's nothing about this situation that is honorable. What can be achieved by keeping this man on the grounds of a facility with a fence so low he can step over it, hours and hours away from his baby? Why not move him?

I know why. You know why. It's because the Federal Bureau of Prisons doesn't care about the inmates. None of the prisons care about the inmates. They're not really people, they are items, objects to be shuffled around, taught, rehabilitated. There is a serious lack of hope in prisons. Ever met a person who has worked there? The guards, especially, are not the kind of people I seek out for dinner parties. I will admit, I read this article with a pre-decided opinion of the prison system. And also, not every jail or prison employee is a bigfat hater. It would be really stupid to say so. That being said, I believe that on the whole, prisons are big black holes.

But there is no prison as black as the one Mr. Yaeger is going to live in for the rest of his life, knowing that paying his debt to society kept him from saying goodbye to his child.

Pray for this family. They need to feel the arms of the Father around them as they watch their baby die. Pray for the little girl. Her name is Jayci. Pray that she knows that there's a Heavenly Father to welcome her to heaven. And pray for the Bureau of Prisons and the person in charge of denying Jayci her dying wish.

This is Very Important Art(read: what happens when the children get the camera).

What is this, even? Some sort of sunrise on the azure planet? Or has someone been practicing their underwater photography again? The camera has been acting a little weird.

Here is some of Olivia's work. Just look at that great big ham. He'd be awful nice in a pot of split pea soup. Mmm, mmm, good.

I have to guess that this is more of Olivia's work. The subject of the photo is much too obvious to have been taken by one of the boys.

Aahhhh, the classic 'Thumb In the Lens' shot, by HB.

Jack took about 45 pictures of this book, which is probably some egregious copywrite infringement. (Especially now that I have displayed it to you!) Apologies to the illustrator, author, and publisher.

Here is HB, by Jack.Or HB, by HB.Not sure.But check out those kicks.

This was taken by me. Like the nearly chipped off nail polish on my thumb? Super-stylin'. That's me.

The photo documents the first time in five years and three months of parenting that my glasses have been bent beyond wearability.

It's kind of a trophy. That's what I tell myself.

HP by HB.

The keyboard is Hewlett-Packard. I knew you were wondering. And you know I am here to enlighten and enliven.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Having a look. Fortunately, there were no critters stuck in the sap. Boy, I really do dislike critters.

They have over 1500 of these buckets hanging from trees. That's in addition to the miles of tubing connecting a gazillion or so other trees. (Note to self: use Photoshop to make stuff cooler.)

Maple syrple. Yum, yum, extra yum.

Buy real maple syrup. Buy it from local syrup makers. If you live nowheres near here, leave me a comment (what the heck, leave a comment anyway. say hi or something) and I'll give you some info on how to score you some. Real. NY. Syrup. Because as cool and whatever else Vermont is, they just plain don't have superior syrup to New York.

How else did we get the Official State Nickname, The Empire of Maple Syrup State? That is what I would like to know. What? Are you saying I am making this Official State Nickname up? No, no, my friends. That is fact. Vermont just blackmailed NY into taking the "of Maple Syrup" part off. They threatened to send all of the crazy liberals back to NY. And Lord knows all of the Upstate Republicans would have a coronary if any more crazy liberals came to NY, so a crisis was averted, and NY no longer publicly refers to itself as The Empire of Maple Syrup State.

I hope you are now feeling enriched and enlightened. After all, I am here to do just those things. Also, enhance and educate and engage you with witty alliteration.

And I hope you support your local Maple Farms and buy local maple syrup.

On a whim, I took the kiddos to That Taco Place for lunch. Not the most kid-friendly place to eat by design, it's a great place to get homemade, mostly organic Mexican food that doesn't assault your wallet. And it's not That Taco Chain, which has a rather unfriendly reputation for assaulting one's digestive system.

I sent off a quick text to my friend Megh, asking if she'd like to join us. And because she is lovely and likes us (also because her mister had left her home alone for lunch), she did. This is the conversation that followed:

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

At bedtime tonight, I was helping Beta Boy out of his daytime clothes and into his jammies. And, surprise, surprise, under his underwear was a diaper. Yuck. From nap time. Yuck, yuck, double yuck. Sometimes he wants a diaper for nap, but not usually. And today I forgot about it. Oops. And yuck.

Mama: You still have on a diaper! Yuck!

J: Eeeeewwwwww. Bi-per. Peeeeeee-Youuuuuuu.

(mutual laugh)

J, very seriously: No... Pee. Me. (At which point, he erupted in hysterical laughter. Of course.)

I do not get enough sleep. I am sure that was your assumption upon reading the title of this post. I have not slept well for years, since I've been pregnant with my girl. But before that...aaahhh, the bliss of being able to sleep through anything was mine, mine, mine.

But then I got married, and turns out, The Mister is a major snorer. MAJOR. SNORER. It is not possible for someone acting out the greatest caricature of the most obnoxious snoring ever to even come close to reproducing the kind of noises that come out of his...umm...self. Is it his nose? Or mouth? Or is the noise just resonating throughout him, rendering his body a sort of tuning fork of snoring? Diesel engines are green with envy.

I should also, in the spirit of truthfulness and whatnot, admit that my sleeping issues were exacerbated by becoming a mother. That whole neurotic mother bear thing, I guess, with the heightened sense of awareness, superpower hearing, protection of the sleeping bairn...as SuperCool Karen would say, OY!

I have tried earplugs. And they are somewhat effective for blocking out the usual, normal-ish sounding snoring. But the bed-shaking, earth-quaking, water-spilling (that is hyperbole, except for the bed-shaking which is accurate) snoring penetrates even the most expensive ear-plugging device.

Also, there is a chewing noise. Constant. Teeth. Clacking. All. #@&#^!&. Night. Long. Teeth noises nauseate me under every circumstance. At night, they nauseate me and make me boil and seethe with a fury previously unknown to mankind.

I think he has no idea. I think, he thinks I am ridiculously sensitive and not pleasant at 2 in the morning. Parts of that are valid. I am finding myself to be increasingly less pleasant in the middle of the night. Being awakened with thunderous noise EVERY 10 MINUTES!!! will do that to a person. I don't understand how he doesn't wake himself up. I don't understand how shouting at him and punching him in the head doesn't wake him up. (Correction: I don't necessarily punch him in the head. I just reach my right arm up over the covers, and whap him behind my back, so I don't really see where my assault lands. But it doesn't work.)

He is somewhat understanding, he has offered to sleep on the couch. Last night, I kicked him out. It was either that or smother him with a pillow, and then I'd go to jail, so it was davenport duty for that guy. I feel bad when I kick him out. But he can sleep anywhere, and I pretty much can't, so I get the bed. I think he was late for work today. There was no sign of coffee having been made this morning when the kids and I got downstairs. I don't want to be that 1950's couple with separate rooms to accomodate the snoring.

The U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) reported Thursday that Americans are getting far less sleep than they should. Ten percent reported they did not get enough sleep or rest every single day of the prior month, and 38 percent said they did not get enough in seven or more days in the prior month.

The report, based on a four-state study of 19,589 adults, said that chronic sleep deprivation an under-recognized public health problem, and is linked to obesity, diabetes, high blood pressure, stroke, heart disease, depression, as well as certain risk factors such as smoking, physical inactivity and heavy drinking.

Really? What a shock. They say other things, too, and I'm not surprised by any of those, either.

The Nebraska Department of Health included this (helpful?) little survey (or quiz-ito, if you are my junior high and high school Spanish teacher who is not my mother-in-law) on their website, to help you determine if you are, in fact, sleepy.

EPWORTH SLEEPINESS SCALE

In contrast to just feeling tired, how likely are you to doze off or fall asleep in the following situations? (Even if you have not done some of these things recently, try to work out how they would have affected you.) Use the following scale to choose the most appropriate number for each situation.

0 = Would never doze1 = Slight chance of dozing2 = Moderate chance of dozing3 = High chance of dozing

Situation Chance of Dozing(Narcoleptics: Score 100, and skip to the end.)

Sitting inactive in a public place (i.e. theatre):How about just sitting...anywhere...score: 1

As a car passenger for an hour without a break:I fall asleep before the car is shifted into gear...score: 3

Lying down to rest in the afternoon:I fall asleep before I'm in a horizontal position...score: 3

Sitting and talking to someone:Kind of an ambiguous question, that one...score 1

Sitting quietly after lunch without alcohol:This question brings up a few more issues than being sleep deprived, don'tchathink?...score me another 3

In a car, while stopping for a few minutes in traffic:What, waiting for the cows to get out of the road? Or, even better, driving behind That Guy on Route 98 who insists on going 25 mph instead of 55? Yeah, I've just about fallen asleep then...score 0

A score of greater than 10 is a definite cause for concern as it indicates significant excessive daytime sleepiness.My score: 16. But I nodded off there for a second, and I may have added wrong.

So I am a definite cause of concern for being overly exhausted, but so is Alpha Male. I think it's time for him to go back to CrossCurrent and get him some assistance. Because I like me some sleep, and I like me more with some sleep. And at this point, coffee isn't even getting either of us through the day.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Today was O's field trip to the Maple Syrup Farm. It was freezing. There were trees with tubes attached to them. There was snow. They gave each of us a piece of maple sugar. The end.

That's that.

But, naturally there's more...something else that of course I will share with you, because, people, I like you to think. And, I'm a firm believer in keeping things as serious as possible at all times.

O and I were the last in a long line of kids and their parents. We were taking some really great pictures of the sap buckets, the trees, O, etc, so we were lollygagging a little. Plus, the vocabulary involved with syrup-making is really intense, and there was too much talking being done by all thirty-plus people there, and we couldn't hear the syrup people anyway, so we were hanging back.

As we were walking, An Item fell out of my vest pocket. I am not going to discuss the Item with you, but I will say that as a Responsible Parent I should not have this (these) Item(s), nor should I engage in the use of said Item(s), however, despite my Allegedly Healthy Lifestyle, I do. So now we are moving on.

O's teacher aide said, 'Ummm, I think you dropped something.' O picked The Item up and handed it to me. I thought I was going to be sick. I felt like a naughty, naughty teenager. I wondered what that woman would think of me now that she knows.

So what did I say, you ask? How did I respond to this situation, to the obvious fact that I do something I should really, really not do?

Those are Daddy's.

That is what I said. I am a big fat liar. Well, they were Daddy's, technically, but then he gave them to me. Hours later, I still cannot understand why I blurted that out. Obviously, they were NOT Daddy's. Obviously everything.

I guess it boils down to the fact that I know I shouldn't, but I do anyway. And for a person who is in touch with her conscience, it is embarrassing to be caught a) doing something she oughtent to do, and b) obviously lying about it.

So there you go, a real look into the life of a gal who doesn't actually have it together, and who also isn't very pleased with herself this Monday.

Sunday, March 16, 2008

The Mister and O were having a conversation the other day, and he used the word 'either' incorrectly in a sentence. Let's take a little survey, show of hands those people who can identify when other people use 'either' incorrectly? Raise 'em up...really, stick up your hand...nobody?

That's right. Only my FIVE YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER can do that.

'Dad, don't you mean neither?' in the most biggest smartypants voice ever.

I was fetching my Habitat bag out of the closet when this all happened, and was forced to shut myself in said closet in order to bust a gut allbymyownself. I opened the door to see Reprimanded Dad looking at me, with an interesting mix of irritation and fascination. 'Did she just correct my grammar?'

As if THAT has never happened before.

I peeked around the door at Miss Smart-O-Pants McGee, who was doing her best to gaze upon her beloved father with sternness. 'Well, when you're wrong, you're just wrong, Dad.'

Friday, March 14, 2008

Today is Pi Day (3.14, and if you don't know what pi is, please click the link. As ever, I am here to further your enlightenment.), and we celebrated by sharing a good meal with good friends, and a chaser of good pie. I got the idea for having a Pi Day Celebration here, after we had already planned to spend the evening shouting at our friends across the kitchen table, you know, over the Child Caucophony.

The Big Plan was to make pot pie or shepherd's pie for dinner, but as my ambition was whittled away, the plan shifted to my favorite homemade mac and cheese recipe and salad, with this Naughty, Naughty Chocolate Pie with whipped cream (yes, made that, too, because once you do, Drool Whip just isn't an option), and a Williams-Sonoma classic: Fresh Pineapple Cream Pie.

Yum. Yum. Extra Yum.

Also yum and extra yum, and the mostest yum of all: sitting across the table from important people, sure they're important people, but mostly, they are important to me. And next to important people (The Mister and Number One Son), and within spitting distance of HB (read: close enough for him to spit on me); and close enough to My Girl to watch her thoroughly enjoy the whipped cream on her Naughty Pie.

Yesterday was not a banner day in the life of moi. This happened, and then I fell down the stairs because, well, I don't actually know how it happened. I had to call for reinforcements, because it was a painful moment. So naturally I used falling down the stairs as an excuse to take a nap. Perfect.

But at breakfast, I had the sweetest little bit of sugar with my coffee. Olivia was eating her Loop-loops (that horrific circle-shaped cereal that is brightly colored and dipped in fake sugar paste, you know the one), and looked at me with her "concerned face". It is the face that tells me I can't even imagine what she is about to ask/tell/inform me.

O, replete with faux-timidity: Will I be like you when I grow up?

My brain: Yes. Exactly. That is just plain how it works.

My mouth: Do you want to be like me? (Followed by brain: Whatever for?)

O, as she most carefully slides off her chair, walks still timidly around the table, and reaching me, flings her arms around my neck: You are the best! The best ever!

And she hugged me and hugged me, and I hugged and hugged her back, and quietly wiped the tears from my eyes. It's always a surprise to be reminded of how much the kids love me, expecially Olivia.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

It's the kind where I tell you how Jack crawled under the table on which the television sits, for the express purpose of Touching DVDs. He took our zippered case of movies (I used to keep my cds in there back when I listened to grown-up music). He was probably sort of sit-squatting, looking at the dvds, contemplating which of them he was going to ruin today, which he was going to touch when he a daddy.

And then he peed. Into the dvd case. On the movies. On the floor. On the electric cords.

I need more coffee. And rubber gloves.

P.S. You can rely on me; I will never actually discuss an actual morning quickie.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

I've mentioned these lovelies before, and if you haven't read their story, you NEED to. You also need to pray for these lovelies, not just because I said so, but because when you read about them, you will be compelled to do so.

A number of their readers have made a list of things Tricia (and Nate) will love about being parents. You can find a number of them here.

Dear Tricia and Nate, I know you will love:

how the kicking and bouncing in the crib becomes more excited as she hears you coming closer

big, fat, mushed sweet potato raspberries blown at you from across the table...and the mushed sweet potato hits you square in the face.

Melody and Karen are the supercoolest people ever and I am baking them some fine bread. So tell me what kind you want, and I'll make it. The Alpha Male also entered the contest, and I bake him bread quite frequently, so I'll have to come up with another way to tell him he's earned honorable mention. I don't really need any suggestions, thankyouverymuch.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Kindergarten registration forms came in the mail the other day. I shake my head, trying to order my thoughts. I have been a parent for five years; it hardly seems like one. Five years ago today I'd have just been to my six-week postpartum visit with my obstetrician; I would be spending my days lounging on the sofa with my beautiful baby, basking in the excitement of having my baby. I never even considered her my first baby...she was just my baby. Most of the time, it was just the two of us. We would cuddle, take naps, watch trashy daytime television.

And for half of those five years, it was just the two of us most of the time, and three when Daddy came home from work. For two and a half years I lived and breathed her. I couldn't wait for her next big milestone. When would she smile? When would she roll over? Eat mushy cereal? Stand up? Walk? Run? I couldn't wait.

When she cried, the cats would be almost as upset, poking their noses in her face in a feline attempt at comfort. And when she was that small, I knew what she needed from me. I could tell when she was hungry, when she was tired, or needed to have her stinky nappy removed. I was probably a little obsessive about making sure her needs were met. I'm like that, pre-emptive, I guess. I just couldn't wait to meet her next need. Couldn't. Wait.

Then Wee Man was born. I was almost two weeks overdue, and was scheduled for an induction Wednesday morning. I remember putting her to bed that Tuesday night, and being overwhelmed with sadness. It was the last night that I could put her to bed and spend as long as I wanted reading and talking with her. It was the last day that I could give her all the attention she wanted, and I realized it after I had kissed her goodnight and she had fallen asleep. It didn't occur to me that morning when I woke up, or as we played during the day, or even as we were reading at bedtime. It came too late. I cried and cried. I felt as if I was experiencing a death, rather than anticipating the sweet babe we would welcome in the next day. I still have that grief in my heart, and it stings this Tuesday night the same way it stung that Tuesday night. I'm still crying and rubbing my sad, drippy eyes and nose on my sleeve. I felt like I was abandoning her, even betraying her.

And there's a lot of times that I think she believes I have betrayed her by having the boys.

The past two and a half years have been a whirwind. Wee Man was born, when he was 11 months old, we found out we were preggers with HB...18 weeks preggers with HB. I think I've been more shocked maybe once in my life. Wee Man was a completely easy baby, except for the nearly debilitating postpartum depression, and so is HB, except for not actually sleeping at night for the first 11.5 months of his life.

It has been only recently that I am feeling a little bit like myself again. It must have been awful for my girl to have her life flip around like that, a new, needy sibling, another one, mom gone off the deep end of crazy. If I had a nickel, a penny even, for every time she says she wishes it were just her, me, and Daddy...Don't get me wrong, I adore my boys. I love them ferociously. But I feel like I have failed Miss O.

I have done the best that I can. I'm not saying that to make an excuse, as in 'I've done the best I can, BUT...' It's true. I do the best I am able. But what happens when that's not good enough? Miss O is completely brilliant, and even at five she is asking questions like that. And I can't answer her. Because I don't know what happens when the best you can do isn't good enough. In the rest of my life, I have excelled at many things, almost never having to do my best in order to be far better than good enough. But in this time and in this place, I am working my ass off, all day long, and often most nights, and I am letting my daughter down.

And now she is ready to go to school. I realize that Kindergarten is six months away. But six months is a breath. When that time is up, she'll be gone. Not moving to Canada, gone, but away from me, gone.

Going to school is a huge, GINORMOUS milestone. I'm not going to be waiting for this one to come around, though. I have learned my lesson.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Yeah, I'm getting to it already. But first, I am going to take a long nap that will be uninterrupted by other people's snoring or being awake. That's other people's wakefulness waking me up. Leave me alone about my bad use of the English language. I'm tired. I said that already.

When I (finally) returned home today from the excruciating experience that was jury duty, Olivia asked me how was my day. "Well," I said, "I sat in a chair all day long, waiting and waiting, and I never got a turn."

She was properly horrified. "But Mom, that is not right that everybody didn't get a turn. Did you do the right thing for the WHOLE day? And still you didn't get a turn?" Yep. Exactly.

(That sound you hear, that weak, brain-dead WooHoo, and the thud on the floor is me cheering, then attempting to kick my heels in glee, but falling right down, because I am so tired from sitting still and doing nothing all day long.)

Except I was playing a little game I made up called "Predict Which Potential Juror Is Dismissed". I am stellar at that game, I tell you what. Out of the first group of 18 jurors, I predicted that 15 would be dismissed. Actually, they let 17 of the 18 go. And while I was excited about how terribly clever I was, I really felt like I was drowning in an ocean of District Attorney Contaminating the Jury Pool. That first group of potential jurors took four hours to interview. If I had any sort of sharp object, I might just have taken that time to clean out behind my eyes with it. The second group took 2.5 hours, and the last took 1.25 hours. Now really, let's ask why. What happened in that extra 2.75 hours (and that is excluding lunch) with the first mini-pool of jurors? I'll tell you: the Bailiff took a nap. You can believe me on this, I was sworn in today. Not as a juror, but I know I was sworn about something. In fact, I even think I swore today, so all of my bases are officially covered.

Note to Genesee County Residents: Lawrence Friedman, the DA, is a pompous ass. He made all sorts of unnecessary comments during his juror questioning that, in my vastly knowledgeable law experience (Awkward wording, I realize. Get over it.), really should have been saved for his opening statement. I will not be voting for him in the future, and I would encourage you to not vote for him, either, because he is rude, and likes to hear himself speak more than a person really should. And the Public Defender? He seemed like he cared. And he seemed honest.

Now that I've given you something fascinating to mull over, please excuse me while I go rinse the very dark brown hair dye from my tresses.

Fabulous. I no longer look like Tonks, but I have lost my steam. I know I promised you a sad-ish one, but I'm just too tired to think. The courtroom ate my brain.

Sunday, March 9, 2008

Tomorrow morning I have the honour of spending my day waiting for men in suits to decide whether or not I am fair and impartial. I guess it's a good thing the shorties are not allowed to come with me, as they spend a good portion of each day telling me I am not fair. It would really prejudice the attorneys against me, and just make a mess of things, possibly even skewing the other prospective jurors and ending up with a mistrial. And where is the justice in that? The poor, sad, alleged murderer would have to sit in jail even longer before being tried by his peers. But is it a jury of his peers? Is the murderer a he? Am I a peer of a murderer? And if I say, "I hope I am not the peer of a (an alleged) murderer," does that make me an inappropriate choice for a jurorship?

So I will take the sock I am knitting, and my little notebook. And I will knit and write my next post which may make you cry if you are a big cryingpants girl like me. So get your hankies ready, and I'll see you tomorrow night.

Saturday, March 8, 2008

I know there are a few people who read The Dayton Time. Actually, it's more than a few, and You Know Who You Are. I don't know who you are and that is why I'm hosting a little contest. So read my 100 things, and then send me your 100 things. It can be a link to your blog or website, an email, if you're Harry Potter, you could send an owl, but that would be weird, because we don't really do that in America.

Speaking of Harry Potter, The Order of the Phoenix, the fifth movie, was crap. I was really disappointed. We watched it last night, and it was kind of a drag. But the books! Ah, the books are...I was going to say 'heavenly', but somehow I don't think that's right. 'Magical'? Pretty much cliche, for a book about magic. I loved them. I am not even going to waste time reading them to my kids, I will just read them to myself. Again.

Be really, all of the cool blogger people have superfun contests. You know I am a supercool blogger. And the best part? SCRUMPTIOUS HOMEMADE BREAD!!! You can't beat that with a stick, I tell you.

Well, you could beat bread with a stick, but that would be dumb. And we can't have that.

I also love Dvorak, Mendelssohn, Vaughan-Williams, Respighi, and Bach.

I studied double bass with a guy who was the assistant principal of the Cleveland Orchestra, but primarily with HenryPeyrebrune, who is one of the kindest and loveliest people I have ever known. Also lovely are his wife Tracy and their children.

But that would be it. That's unless I had a baby for somebody else, but I'm almost to the point where they would call me a geriatric pregnancy, and I am not really into being referred to as 'geriatric'.

I have very few friends and I like it that way.

I like Alpha Male's friends (except one who is an ass, but I tolerate him because I love Alpha Male.)

I hope to like my children's friends.

I think I am a little much for most people. They just do not know what to do with me.

I love to wear jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt or sweatshirt, but I like to dress up once in a while.

In my mind's eye (or in the nightmares where I am getting my teeth knocked out), I have really long hair.

I believe I am called to be a servant to those in need, but I draw the line at becoming a perpetual pack mule.

I believe the greatest thing I can do in my life is to raise my children to be honest, hard-working, God-loving adults.

There it is, my 100 Random Facts about me. Hope you've enjoyed today's exhibits of the Pamela Dayton show. Consider yourself tagged. I offer you the first Dayton Time Contest. Send me your 100 Random Facts about you by posting a comment (or emailing me, if you must). I will have one of the shorties select the names of two people to receive a yummy loaf of homemade bread, because I am acquiring mad bread skills, so believe you me, it is a prize you will be receiving. You can choose from Maple Whole Wheat, Sourdough, Plain Old Boring Sandwich Bread, or Pumpernickel. If you live far away, I will package it well and send it off. Contest ends Sunday night, March 9th, at 10:00 p.m., or by the time I check in Monday morning. Whichever comes first.

It started poorly. At least for me, it started poorly. Because when I woke up, The Mister had departed to his place of employment. And the MyGirl and NumberOneSon were bouncing 'round the house, using dvd's like plates, hats, shoes, forks, toilet paper. You get the picture. And it was one of those mornings in which I was physically unable to actually open my eyes. I was sort of awake in my brain, but my eyes were so very tired. That comes from not changing my contacts every two weeks, as I should.

The Mister also did not remove the steaming pile of diapers, which has been making me gag for a long, stinkin' time (giggle if you must). I also peeled five tangerines without eating one slice, and did not actually consume caffeine until it was almost P.M.

The fighting...oh, the fighting. It has begun. And let me tell you, I have been biting my tongue. At least mostly. There was one rather ugly moment where I unleashed the angry beast and it shouted, "STOP FIGHTING OR YOU WILL BE DUCT TAPED TO YOUR BEDS UNTIL YOUR FATHER COMES HOME!!!" Duct tape is such a handy product, useful for all occasions. Shoulda slapped a big ol' piece of it over my mouth about five minutes sooner.

I have put them in time out. Except they refuse to go today, and I am so frustrated and angry, that I can't really pick them up and put them there, because I just don't want to touch them. I don't hit my kids, I have seen enough of that to last my lifetime. That's why I am not putting them in their time outs. And if you don't get that, if you don't know how easy it is to stand on one side of the line, looking at the other side, realizing how thin the line is and how you could slip over the line if you're not careful, it's okay. I'm just being real, over here, because that's all I know, and because I'm not such a great bullshit artist that I can say, "Being a mama is all sunshine and roses." Sometimes it sucks and is hard, and is all kid poop and wall art. Not that I'd ever even consider giving it up...well, the poop and drawing on the walls could go. It'd be okay.

The rice I am cooking for dinner smells like it's on fire, and three out of four of us in the house are weeping uncontrollably. The fourth keeps shouting, "What's all the smoke about?" Yeah, the rice was on fire. And I have been clenching my jaw so much today that I have a wicked headache and am wearing my TMJ splint, usually reserved for bedtime. In the event that at the end of the day I'm feeling supersexy, the splint reminds me that I am just another stressed out, butt-wiping, fight-breaking-up, brain-dead mother of preschoolers who also looks like she has an equine relative just up the family tree.

I just asked MyGirl, "So why are you guys so nasty to each other and so very disobedient?" Her response: Well, maybe we watched too much tv, or maybe we are tired and didn't eat enough food that is good for us.

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

NumberOneSon: Mama, I need to ask you sumfin. Mom, I don't like ghostes or icecuhbles. Or ducks. I like ducks. That's what I want to ask you. And I want to get Buzz at duh whyberry.

MyGirl: So guess what we are doing in school? In two weeks or one week...We are having an Easter party. An EASTER EGG PARTY in one or two weeks from today. How many thumbs up is that? We did marble painting today. You put the paint in a box and some marbles. And then you shake it, WITH AN ADULT, OF COURSE! And then it makes a great picture with squiggles. (hushed voice) But I think it's magic. I think it turns into Swan Lake.

Monday, March 3, 2008

It was a gorgeous nearly Spring day, and we had to go to Rochester anyway, so the team and I hit the Seneca Park Zoo. Much to our surprise, there was action in the rhinocerous pen. Usually when we visit the zoo, the rhinos stand around like nerds in a bar. Not today.

Chasing each other, sliding down the muddy hill, sticking their horns where the sun doesn't shine, goring each other quite bloody. At one point, Rhino A had hooked Rhino B's back right leg, and was running around after Rhino B. Poor Rhino B looked like an armored three-legged dog. Bec and I stood watching, waiting for one to throw in the towel...or to see what rhino mating really looks like.

Alas, the children were getting upset by the bleeding (fancy that), and we had to move on. By the time we came back, the animals were locked up indoors.

Sunday, March 2, 2008

I would like to preface this by informing you all that I am not really a dreaming sort of gal. If I ever reach that level of sleep where dreaming happens, and with all the snoring, teeth-grinding, awake-in-the-night people in my house, trust me, it's more of a life goal to have a dream than something I do on a regular basis.

But last night, people, I Had A Dream. Don't get all excited and expect a Dr. Martin Luther King experience, it was a Completely Weird Dream. And don't get all worried, because I'm not planning to recount the entire thing to you; that is just confusing for everyone.

My brother, JT, has been married inreallife for almost six years to Auntie Tef who we are In Love With. (We also love JT thismuch and their beautiful boys, just wanted to be sure everyone understands that before I continue.)

Here is the Completely Weird Dream's Plot: JT's and Auntie Tef's marriage had been declared null and void in the Grand Commonwealth of Virginia due to a well-photographed, newly-diagnosed, uncommon and chronic butt-hole condition of JT. They had to come to New York (where we Daytons live inreallife and in dream world, too, most conveniently) so that they could get married again and have it all be legal. Because apparently in NY we do not discriminate against people with uncommon chronic butt-hole conditions.

What in the world.

P.S. As far as I know, JT has no such uncommon and chronic butt-hole condition. And boy if you do, please refrain from showing me the pictures of said condition. Sharing's nice and all, but I promise I'll pray for your mung-ish backside if you ask nicely, no photos needed.

Saturday, March 1, 2008

It is never a good thing when laundry occurs at 11:23 p.m. However, I firmly believe it is not a good idea to preach naked at one's own church (or any church, for that matter). Naturally that is a teensytiny exaggeration of the situation, as I would neverevereverever go around naked anywhere, especially church. Not. Gonna. Happen.

I was planning to blurp a little about our lovely dinner with a friend, but seeing as how I've mentioned myself, possibly naked, twice, in the last paragraph, I will refrain for the present. He will thank me later, I am sure.